Raven Cage Zine Issue1

Hide and Seek

Hide and Seek

Fear crept up his spine
A ringing centipede of ice.
Hunched, trembling under sheets
A voice but an echo
Floated from the shadow
"Let's play Hide and Seek,
I'll count to ten
No one will find you again."

As all but the game is of darkness
A ghost of fame
Known is his shame
Under the echo's rigs torn sheets
I will hide
Let's see if this is my dream
As I think
Can you see my soul
In this game of ten counts

The rattle of chains
Heavy binds dragging
Muted laughter in the distance
Weeping fading into the gloom
Spirited throughout the room
His limbs frigid and weak
"Let us begin
You just have to let me in"

To calm the silent cries
As there is no boundaries
For you are the chapter
In alliance
For you shall master
Inside the beauty of garden
That is the bed of ballroom darkness

When the silence stills
The cries and laughter fray
It is time to play
We shall dance a dreary waltz
In the glow of silver
Carried away by the moonlight
Off into a dismal night

Shall be filled dreams
In saintly of moons all
Ray's within the kiss
That is fallen in seek
For darkness has a way
That the bones ache
In shivers of warmth depth
For high is loves peek

As a memory you shall fade
Like the ghost to the dying night
Before the dawn
You will be gone
Hidden far, far away
They can have your body
Though less than a zombie
For I have kept the best
Your soul is now mine
The darkness can have the rest

© 2016 Deb Harman & Jerry Langdon

The Rose Garden - James Ward Kirk

The Rose Garden

James Ward Kirk

 

Adam Glacies sat in his green plastic chair under the fading sun staring at his dead wife’s dead rose garden. Even though this Indiana May, already too hot, promised a healthy garden for Angela’s flowers, they weren’t taking. The remnants from the hellish winter stood crookedly, faded yellows and reds and her prize whites. Scratching at his graying whiskers with his left hand, Adam lifted the police-issue .38 from his lap, a remnant of his former life, and pointed the muzzle at his temple.

He couldn’t do it. He knew he should pull the trigger, even things out, reconfirm his loyalty to Angela, but he also understood cowardice and disloyalty.

He stuffed his gun into the belt holding his jeans up and walked to his house. The grass needs cutting. The goddamn dandelions are taking over.

In the kitchen, Adam set the table. He loaded his plate with three pork chops, a heaping mound of mashed potatoes, and golden corn. Across the table from him rested a photograph of Angela wearing a white dress with matching sunbonnet, long blond hair framing a perfect face. Her blue eyes and bright smile projected the most pain for Adam. She was still innocent.

Tearing into his meal, barely bothering to chew, never taking his eyes from Angela’s, he finished, then hurried to the sink and vomited everything back up.

His pants fell to the floor. I’m losing weight. Too much weight and it hurts.

Pulling them back up, he turned on the tap water and rinsed the sink, then turned on the garbage disposal. He listened hungrily as his guilt ground in the machine.

After turning off the tap and the garbage disposal, he walked to the living room, sat down in his black recliner, laid his pistol on the table beside his chair and opened the drawer. Removing the half-empty bottle of bourbon, he finished the nut-brown liquid in three long pulls, and fell asleep.

 

Adam awoke to a low buzzing sound. The room was dark, as was his mood. Becoming a bit more alert, he picked up his gun and, unsteady, walked to the front porch.

Forcing his mind to focus, he saw small furry creatures with big eyes—reminding Adam of chipmunks and apple-head Chihuahuas with antennae—eating the dandelions in his yard. A whippoorwill sounded in the distance.

Adam pointed his .38 at one of them.

No! We come in peace and love. The voice seemed crystal-clear in his mind, at once alien and comfortably familiar, somehow reminiscent of Angela’s voice.

Whatever. Lowering his gun, he walked back into the house, to his bedroom, and fell into a deep sleep, dreaming of Angela’s blue eyes and the lost chirping of crickets in a moonlit night.

Then he dreamed of Eve, and shivered in the heat as he slept:

Eve was the exact opposite of Angela, raven-haired, eyes so dark and large like a starless midnight sky, tall and long-legged, and corrupt. Eve: meth-thin, opposite of Angela’s full-bodied figure, small breasted but a plump ass: Angela’s golem.

A courier, Eve drove a new black Caddy and lived in Gwynneville. Adam drove an unmarked blue Impala and lived in Shelbyville. He waited outside her supplier’s house in Rushville and followed her along State Road 52 with the windows down, enjoying the scent of fresh cut hay, until they reached her home. Eve never saw him coming.

He waited at the corner of her house, registering her sensual walk, noticing her very short blue jean skirt and her pearl high-cut t-shirt and of course the bulging silver purse hanging from her shoulder. When she worked the lock, he made his move.

Just as Eve pushed the door open, Adam hit her with his left shoulder. She went tumbling, dropping her purse, and two kilos of bagged crystal meth spilled onto the floor.

Eve, handcuffed in a matter of seconds, rolled over unto her back. Adam looked down at her, his police badge in hand.

She spread her legs just enough to show her promise of an ebony happy trail. “Don’t do this. I’ll suck you dry. I’ll fuck you dry. I know things.”

Her voice, melodic, her mouth filled with promise, seemed a reward to Adam. He worked hard and played hard, more so than anyone he knew.

He couldn’t deny his erection and didn’t want to anyway. This beautiful woman, impossible to resist, sang a siren’s song. Adam dropped his jeans and straddled her.

“Wait,” she sang, “bring it up here first.” She opened her wonderful mouth.

Eve was not a gift; rather, an addiction.

 

Adam crawled out of bed, making it to the toilet just in time to empty his stomach. Not bothering to brush his teeth, he walked to the kitchen and started some coffee, standing in front of the machine, motionless, breathing shallowly while watching the coffee brew. He poured some into a cup and walked to the front porch.

On his third sip, he noticed the absence of dandelions. Remembering a vague dream about small furry creatures eating them, and speaking to him, he shrugged his shoulders. I need to cut the grass. He noticed his neighbors’ yards still overrun by dandelions.

He finished his coffee and walked around the side of his house toward the garage where his green lawnmower awaited him. Filling the gas tank, he checked the oil and then pulled it behind him to the smallish backyard. I should probably cut those roses down. His stomach heaved at the thought. Hesitantly, he glanced at the rose garden.

What?

The roses leered back at him in perfect health. Angela’s rose garden could easily grace any glossy magazine cover. They’re unspoiled.

As he approached, their perfume overwhelmed him and he fell to his knees. I’m going insane. Finally.

He finished his journey to the rose garden, allowing his eyes to adjust to the bright hues. Their scent and color made his eyes water. The morning sun, burning without mercy, was unable to affect the tears streaming down his face, as now he cried—no, sobbed.

Birds chirped; a dove cooed. In the distance, a woodpecker worked mightily.

I don’t deserve this. Adam stood and walked to the edge of the garden. He longed to experience joy over the miracle before him, but suffered emptiness.

Angela should be here.

Reaching out to touch one of the white roses, he hesitated. The bed of the garden glowed violet, the deep color a king might wear. I smell... I’m reminded of... manure... but not like any I know... there’s no chemical smell... Adam took three steps backward and tripped over the lawnmower, falling to the ground.

Fuck!

Regaining his footing, he looked all around, and decided to cut the grass. Starting the mower, he began his routine of cutting: familiar squares, rectangles, circles around the two maples. He withdrew into his thoughts.

Nine in the morning on a beautiful Saturday, the breeze perfectly warm, Angela so lovely in her jeans and white t-shirt, hair pulled back, a smile dancing on the edges of her mouth.

“I’m proud of you for donating your time at the Seniors Village.”

“Thank you, Adam. Those people are so fun. I love listening to their stories.”

“I’ll pick you up at four.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Watching Angela walking, wondering why Eve’s hold on him is so powerful when Angela is so beautiful. Sex is wonderful with her, and the love I feel when I’m inside her is real.

Driving away, growing hard, not for the moment, but for the moment to come. Naked Eve meeting him at her back door, gone Brazilian, holding coffee laced with bourbon; screwing, drinking, screwing, napping, drinking, screwing...

“Adam! Wake up! You’re late!”

Adam shuddered.

Waking up with my face buried deep in her lap, unable to finish what I started, drunk, feeling Eve’s hands push me and I fall to the floor naked and the bottle of bourbon falls and empties onto my head, rushing to dress, leaving Eve still drunk and already back to sleep...

. . . Angela sitting on the steps, smiling at me even though I’m late. God bless her.

Angela getting in and I pull away still drunk, so drunk. I pick up speed, she leans over to kiss me, and oh, my God, she smells Eve on my mouth and my Angela shrinks.

Leaving Rushville on SR52, cornfields, and tree lines to fight erosion, and I hear her start to cry and this angers me so I smack her.

Picking up speed, turning on my lights, passing slowing cars, and Angela plants a right fist directly onto my right temple and I briefly lose it...

Waking up... my cop friends telling me my car rolled six times and I’m okay but Angela... no seatbelt, thrown from the car. I find her in three pieces: a crimson mess, one leg bled out hanging pale from a tree branch, her trunk all yellow in the flashing lights.

Adam grimaced.

His BAC never checked.

Buried in three days . . . her white sunbonnet . . . Angela gone forever to a blue place where roses grew as big as oaks, a haven he knew he’d never reach.

His first Saturday without Eve  . . .

The second Saturday, nighttime, peeping through her window, Eve strung out on meth and whiskey, already another naked man by her side, he slunk away; murder thrumming in-between beats of his heart, never to be.

Adam quivered, released from memory, the tank of the mower empty, and the expected spring breeze still, twilight stars beginning to twinkle in the sky.

How long have I been standing here? He looked around the neighborhood, lights flashing on in homes, cars parked neatly in driveways, dandelions everywhere.

He walked into his home, tugged long and hard on a fresh bottle of bourbon, and fell asleep, feeling death like a kiss on his cheek—and welcomed both.

Awakened by a buzzing in his head, now a familiar sound, a loved one calling out, and he walked out to his front porch.

All of the dandelions gone; no freshly cut grass in his neighbors’ yards, just the absence of dandelions and the loss of night sounds; no chirping of birds, no crickets, no buzzing of flying insects—only the silence of the night exploding in his mind.

Adam left the porch and walked around the side of the house to the backyard.

Gazing upon Angela’s rose garden, understanding now the completed artistry; his memory of this morning’s rose garden incomplete, experienced like the morning before the final brush strokes on the Sistine Chapel, which Angela once told him about.

She should know.

Angela’s roses towered above him, at least fifteen feet tall, and colored like the most beautiful works of art in the world. Adam fell to his knees.

A stirring among the roses . . .

. . . Them.

Watching without fear or anxiety as the beings spread out from the garden, their circle completed. Do not fear, they sang. We offer you Angela.

“How?” Adam felt the dew soaking through his pants at the knees. Honeysuckle scented the breeze.

Come. Stand among us. We will take you to Angela.

Adam stood, entered the circle, and blinked.

And saw the earth below him, as blue as Angela’s eyes.
I’m inside a bubble.

Yes, a bubble.

“You ate the crickets, too.”

Like you, we are omnivores.

Omnivores? I think that means they eat anything. Like an old spider spinning a new web, fear spread through him. I don’t understand.

Adam blinked again. He saw blackness.

We are in galaxy M87, the home of the largest black hole in your known universe.

“Why?”

We are taking you to Angela.

 “Why?”

Because this is what you want, no, need.

Adam experienced the reflection of the bubble in a blue star being sucked into the black hole. Other stars moved with him—red, yellow, white— transforming into shapes of monarch butterflies and seahorses and fireflies; and other images he had no words to describe.

A tap on Adam’s shoulder surprised him. He turned.

 “Hello. My name is Hieronymus Bosch.”

Adam nodded to the man, but before he could introduce himself the man was no more. What a creepy little shit. Adam blinked.

We are near.

He blinked again and was momentarily blinded.

An O-star, and why it is blue; rare indeed, but quite beautiful, don’t you think?

 “Yes.” Why do I deserve such beauty? He blinked. I don’t. “Where is Angela?”

Near, very near; please be patient.

He closed his eyes, then heard Angela’s voice: Adam?

He opened them.

There! You see, Adam?

A planet: one half, the side facing the star, shimmered yellow/red, molten; the side facing away from the star white, icy, stark; and a blue ring around the middle of the planet promised innocence, purity, and a concept for which Adam couldn’t find the word he desired.

This planet does not rotate. The middle part represents where life exists. Angela is there, in the blue ring.

 “When do I get to see her?” I have so much to say; especially, I’m sorry.

We are sorry. When did we say you might see her?

“Then what?” Adam, happy for Angela and her blue place, understood now he no longer mattered.

Choose.

“Choose?”

Choose your home: white or lemon-crimson. Free will, Adam, is a promise. One of many.

I should have known. “I always favoured her white roses.”

Adam fell. As he sunk into the planet’s atmosphere, he broke into a million pieces of eternally screaming white ice, the word “Angela” falling like snowflakes, snowflakes the colour of regret.

 

Walk by the river

 

 

 

 

 

   It was a beautiful early Summer day. The sun was shining and there was not a cloud to be seen; perfect for a stroll along the river.

I liked it there, it was so quiet and one could ponder over life or just think about nothing at all. There were park benches every now and then, usually occupied by some mother with a buggy or older people that would feed the gulls or ducks to pass time. Every so often you would find a couple picnicking or men fishing off the banks. A kayak, boat, or barge would pass once in awhile.

   

    Yeah it was nice there on the river.

 

  I had strolled along for quite some time taking notice to the gulls gliding about and the ducks drifting along on the water. It had begun to get darker. I looked to the sky. Still not a cloud to be seen, and the sun was at about 2 O'clock. Yet it was dark as dusk. I found that strange, but didn't let it bother me. I continued my stroll. It was after all still a nice day. I came upon a young boy; maybe 5 years old. He was alone and looked lost. He was whining, calling for his mother, looking in all directions. I felt sad for him and I too looked around. I seen no one but the boy. I tried to calm him down and asked him his name.

 

   He answered, "I don't know."

 

I asked him where he last seen his mother.

 

   He said, "I'm not sure."

 

By this time I was confused but the boy was obviously lost. I asked him what his mother looked like.

 

   He answered, "I don't remember."

 

Now I was irritated and again looked around to see if I could find anyone that might help. When I looked back to the boy he was gone. He must have been flink because I didn't see a sign of him anywhere.

 

    I thought about making my way back but decided that I wanted to have a coffee at the cafe' not all to far away. So I set off again. A short distance along the way I ran across two men fishing.

  

          I shouted," Hey guys caught anything?" I didn't really care it was just out of nonsense that I even asked.

 

          One of the men shouted back, "Only thing I've caught is a case of the ass and probably my death of cold."

 

   I found that peculiar as it was a rather warm day. Then I seen an elderly lady sitting on a bench and decided a short sit would be nice. I walked over and noticed she was picking a loaf of bread and tossing the bits to the ground. I was certain she was feeding the gulls until I noticed the birds were black from head to toe. She was feeding a bunch of ravens. I couldn't remember ever seeing raven around here so that was a first. I asked politely if I could have the seat next to her. She just nicked her head not making a tone. I took a seat and watched as she fed the ravens, that would hop around pecking the bits of bread. I tried to start a little small talk but was answered the same silence. The only one besides me that wanted to talk were the ravens that would caw whenever I asked a question. They would eye me; sizing me up and caw. I felt uncomfortable so I wish a good day and continued my way to the cafe'.

 

   A little further down the way I saw an old man with a cane, walking seemingly in place. I asked if I could help him.

 

        He answered, "Son we hasten all too much and still we waste so much time. It is all just energy lost. I'll keep it slow. If I'm late I'll still be early enough."

 

  I could see the cafe' then and walked over to it. I was just taking a seat viewing the river when I noticed a crowd of people standing at at a pier. I couldn't remember having ever seen a pier there before. I looked around the crowd and seen the little boy from before. There was a woman kneeling down in front of him, hugging him. I guessed it was his mother. Then I spotted the old man, and the fishers. Then I spotted the elderly woman that was feeding the ravens. All the people I had stumbled upon on my stroll were there waiting for something.

 

    A strange fog had begun to build over the river and move towards them. I could hear a creaking of wooden planks as the strange fog neared and dissipated and an old barge docked on the pier where they were waiting.

 

   In that second I felt a tug at my shoulder, then  everything went fast. I was dragged to my feet and with blurring speed down the path I had walked.

 

 

The sun burned my eyes it was suddenly a bright day again. I found myself lying on the ground and a woman was giving me CPR.

 

© Jerry Langdon 2016

Interview with Michael Lee Johnson

 

 

J.Langdon:  What drew you to poetry? Who are your favorite and most inspirational Poets?

 

Michael Lee Johnson:  I was drawn to poetry by no roots no direction of my own, a drifter, a nowhere to go person.  I was a basketball, sports star in high school, an early marriage at 17 with child.  That marriage was short two year and back to my hometown, Niles, Michigan.  Funds from my mother allowed me to attend university where I fell in love and lost that love-then the poems began in 1968.

My first love and still is Carl Sandburg.  I read everything and imitated his voice better than anyone I know to this day.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKS1Xc1cIFQ.

Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Irving Layton, Charles Bukowski, Leonard Cohen, Margaret Atwood early poems.   Favorite Books:  The Bible, As A Man Thinketh by James Allen, Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse, Jiddu Krishnamurti, Margaret Atwood (early poems).

 

 

J. Langdon:  I have seen you do a lot for the present day poetry scene. You seem to go out of your way to help poets be noticed. What drives you to go out of your way to aid them?

 

Michael Lee Johnson:  It is simply, a passion, a drive hammer wedged between me, and Jesus Christ, and our communion with each other.  For years before the internet, I quit submitting poetry.  My reality is I have over 428 published poems and hundreds of starter poems unfinished.  I am 68 going on 69, at this point in my life I find as much joy in helping others get "kick started" as I do with my own works published in over 27 countries and 885 different publications.

 

 

J.Langdon:  I have noticed similarities to Carl Sandburg in your writings and in quite a few a Leonard Cohen.  You seem to have seen a lot in your life. Do you travel a lot for inspiration?

 

Michael Lee Johnson:  Yes, I would say Carl Sandburg and Leonard Cohen were my earliest influences.  Lately Charles Bukowski.  I had a hard time in exile arriving in Canada with a car that broke down, I tossed everything accept a few clothes and I keep poetry written up to that point and hitch hiked all over Ontario during the Canadian postal strike at the time while waiting for my landed immigrant card which would allow me to work legally in Canada.  The story is too long but the bottom-line is I traveled all provinces in Canada at one time or another.  I lived in my cars, slept in barns, and met many women.  You mix all this up and you have a poet.

 

 

J. Langdon: All the publications are quite an accomplishment.  What advice can you give, or have given to help poets be published?

 

Michael Lee Johnson:  First you need to understand the odds, new poets are lucky if they get published 2-3% of the time.  That means 2 or 3 times out of 97 rejections.  Never give up hope.  I am published at a very high rate of about 10-15% of the time.  There are many reasons why one gets rejected:  poor timing, editor has problems hasn't had time to look, the editor simply doesn't like your style, it was a themed submission and your poems didn't fit, they only publish one a year, you didn't read the submission guidelines carefully enough, the list goes on and on.  Never give up hope.

Advice?  I started a poetry site in my home community of Itasca, IL and no one cared.  In fact, they tossed the draft issue in my face after 45 years have passed.  Then I got the idea to start a group not based on geography rather interest thus my poetry site:  https://www.facebook.com/groups/807679459328998/, Contemporary Poets, Their Works, Current Poetry Projects, News, and Links.  Since only about 8-12% of the population really loves poetry this brings together a concentrated group that can help, comment, make suggestions, see new poetry sites to submit to and a natural audience to find talent for a poetry anthology.  On this site, I build confidence in inexperienced poets who only need a little support to move on into the published world of poetry.  Poets need to keep a spreadsheet with a list of publishers and add to it.  On Facebook poetry groups when you go to a site you will see other related sites to the right side.  When you go to an online publisher site always, look for "Links" or "Other Sites We Love."  Keep records in that spreadsheet of growing publishers:  date sent, name of publication, website, what "batch" of poems you sent, the editors name, the results, then each month tally number of publishers contacted, percentage of poems accepted, etc.   Here is a free wonderful list to start your spreadsheet of publishers with Poetry Publishers Willing to Receive Submissions Electronically:  https://andromeda.rutgers.edu/~lcrew/pbonline.html.  Create your own Twitter, Facebook, Google Plus, Facebook Group, Pinterest, Stumblers, and other social media.

 

 

J.Langdon:  You say exile. Do you mean exile as the classic term? Were you running from something or forced to leave, or do you mean exile as in homeless?

 

Michal Lee Johnson:  In my case, it turned out to be both ultimately.  Initially it was exile in self-imposed choice or jail.  While in Canada, it turned out to be homeless many times over.  Who defined what exile is?  Is it choice or is it no choice but to leave, a decision to make.  Exile is lonely, without roots, drifter, no country of your own, that is what exile is.

 

 

 

J.Langdon:  You gave some good pointers and the more global the better. I have noticed you have your own YouTube channel and Sound Cloud. How is that working out for you?

 

Michal Lee Johnson: I love them all; but to be honest, it is very time consuming to do a YouTube video.  I am nearing 100 poetry videos but I love doing the music, my audio, the pictures and making it all come together. I also post them on other social media when done on YouTube:  https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos